There in the dusk, Gethsemane’s structure rose in the dark; humble, yet proud. There, on the steps of Emmett’s dream, Bronx’s heart skipped a beat and before it hardened against her husband, he sat down the soup, took a chance, and drew her close.
Her head rested in a perfect spot where his neck met his shoulders. She stayed put. He wrapped her close in arms that never wanted to hold anybody else. Her clean fragrance of soap and fresh-ironed clothes covered him better than any aroma of the past. He didn’t care a whit that Emmett haunted her, not for this perfect second, at least. Because in his heart, they were the only two people standing here at the top of the world.
“Yep,” he muttered into the warm hair, but wanted to say much more. More that he’d never be permitted to say to the woman who loved a dead preacher man. But she didn’t pull away, not one single bit.
So he moved just a smidge, so his lips met hers. Like a rose, her mouth bloomed against his, nestled together with unspoken words.
Until somewhere, off in the distance, somebody broke a bottle. Bottles cracked every day, but this one shattered the moment and brought them both out of the forbidden dream.
“Sorry.” Bronx still held her, tried to read her eyes, but her lids stayed closed. So he unwound the fingers clasped together against the small section of her back, and stepped away. “I’ll find Doc Holliday to check Malina and come back soon.”
She nodded, fumbled for the key in her reticule, bent for the soup. One last glance as she slipped past the unlocked door. He saw the glisten of tears in her eyes. Heart trembling, fingers shaking, vowing to buy his own overcoat as soon as he earned his wage. Bronx turned back for the Board of Trade, in Emmett Brewer’s overcoat. Hated himself because he’d made her cry.
****
Bronx found Doc Holliday at his usual faro table another fine scarf at his neck and stuck with a diamond pin, and sat down quickly.
“How do you do, my dear Mr. Sanderson?” The man was clearly in his cups, but his eyes yet remained bright and intelligent. “Take a seat, won’t you please?”
Bronx sat, but couldn’t stay long. “Miz Lila has a sick girl at Gethsemane. Miz Lila believes it an ague, but would appreciate a professional opinion. Malina.”
“Ah, the fair Malina.” Beneath his handsome mustache, Doc’s lips curled in a smile. “Fine and brave. But I must insist upon a physician. I am close to stupor, and not in a condition to make any diagnoses. Should you wish, I can stop by tomorrow afternoon as I plan to sleep the morning away. In the meantime, Doc Newell is a better man in my stead.” Then he straightened and his slow voice rushed. “Your Pinkerton is definitely after you, my friend. He used your name in its entirety.”
Fear gripped Bronx like a glacier all but knocked him off the chair. “My name? Not...not Shandy Brinks?”
Doc Holliday nodded. “Sure and the same.”
“But you said I was...dead.”
“And I told our Pinkerton the very same thing. That, as a lawman in Arizona, I knew it for a fact Bronx Sanderson is dead and buried. But herein is the coil.” Doc Holliday’s well-kept fingernails tapped against his glass. “Sadly, I must renege on my invitation for your company upon my departure for Denver. A flurry of discontent amongst my own enemies, those Slopers I mentioned prior, prevents my exodus for some time. It’s best you leave soon—and by your lonesome.” He dashed his hand in a swirl from his forehead to chest. “Please accept my sincere apologies.” Then, he stared at Bronx, all antics gone. “I seriously recommend you hightail it out of Leadville, and soon, my friend. Something is afoot that neither you nor I understand. Truth is...” Doc Holliday rose and extended his hand. “Truth is, I’d not waste a single day.”
Bronx’s skin prickled. He couldn’t stay. He was sought by a detective and even hadn’t he been, he was but an understudy for the man Lila had loved and lost. But with her kiss still warm on his lips, he couldn’t leave, either.
Chapter Ten
Lila set down the soup and let the tears come. Not only because of Emmett, and guilt, and the many vows she ached to break. But because Bronx’s kiss held promise, and he planned to leave.
And she could not. But worse, Emmett had made it clear she was no sort of woman to inspire a man’s desire and fulfill his needs. And Bronx Sanderson was a man, a whole man, whose every sinew, every pore deserved a whole woman. No matter she felt like a woman deep down, Emmett had disproved it.
She climbed out of her burnoose and gloves, held the bundle against her face to soften the sounds of her sobs. Last thing she needed was Malina seeing she wasn’t strong.
A shadow moved in front of the only illumination—the lighted fireplace.
“What made you cry?” Asa Tibbett rose up from banking the fireplace. “Our girl’s fast asleep.”